Before A Fall
by Nymyrra
Summary: Neji feels that he needs to apologize, but perhaps he is already understood. Pride is, after all, a very human feeling. NejixGaara.


_A note - I want to thank everyone who has reviewed any of my stories so far, and I want to especially thank all of you who are waiting patiently for me to upload! I am still working on my projects, but, as a thank-you for your patience, here is this short story._

_This is written from Neji's perspective, which is a challenge in an of itself for me, because Neji is not the character than I am most familiar with. The prose mimics his thoughts and feelings -- you'll notice that, at the end, it speeds up a bit. I wondered about shaping it like that, with that speed, but I kept that structure because I believe it works well with what Neji was feeling at the moment. _

_The title refers both to the saying "Pride goeth before a fall," and the setting of the story, which is during the summertime. I wondered who to put into the story, for it's a look (perhaps an oblique one) at pride; and Neji and Gaara just seemed to fit. The focus here is for me was the interaction between Gaara and Neji, and I hope it came out well. This story is set after the Rescue Sasuke arc, but before Shippuuden._

_Any and all opinions are welcome; that's what the review button is for :)_

**Before A Fall**

Neji knew Gaara would be out here.

He was on the bridge, looking down into the pond, where the trees and the faint grey sky that loomed above the surface echoed back and back below, in the waters.

Breathing heavily, Neji slowed his quick pace, his feet scuffing the ground and trailing dust and grit in his wake. Before him, the scene unfolded in a grand sweep of foliage and meadow and pond; the trees with their thick, straight trunks shooting up from the ground, solid and immovable; and the bridge beneath the leaves that crowded out the sky. The hair falling down about Gaara's face, slashes of red against the white that shivered in the breeze. The slow sway of his legs as they dangled from the bridge, naked toes canted downwards. The expression on his face that was both closed and open – eyes that swallowed the world about him, yet eyes locked away in thought.

So still, this scene. If anything stirred, it was the leaves in the wind, and even that slight flutter was hesitant, deliberate. Neji too stood without moving, trying to fix this image in his mind, trying to memorize it so that this long moment could be eternal: Gaara on the bridge, looking down into the water.

He closed his eyes, and swallowed firmly. In the darkness, he could smell the summer day, the flowers in full bloom peeking at the sun, and the grass whispering and tall behind him. Blinking open, he looked to the ground. Rain was imminent: dampness filled his nose, and muted the colors to restful, mourning hues. Against the myriad shades of greys and greens, the color of Gaara's hair was a startling intrusion.

Neji drew a deep breath, and trudged the rest of the way to the bridge, one hand playing, nervously, unconsciously, with his own hair. Gaara did not raise his eyes from the pond, for which Neji was thankful: he had half-expected Gaara to turn and leave upon noticing him, and, while that would have hurt and angered Neji, he had made no attempt to hide his approach. If Gaara wanted to leave, it would only be justified.

I'm stupid, Neji thought bitterly. I am a fool. A proud, proud fool.

He mounted the steps of the bridge with a slow and heavy pace, his weight filling each foot as he laid it to the wood. At the topmost stair, the rest of the bridge lay before him, flat straight boards that the morning had darkened and made slick. The heels of Neji's sandals clicked against these as he moved towards Gaara; the sounds were clipped, almost chiding.

He knew Gaara could hear them; and yet Gaara remained unmoving, one hand pressed to the board next to him, the other half-curled about the railing, holding the metal. The sleeve had slid down his upraised arm, had gathered loosely around his elbow and revealed the mesh beneath. As Neji drew close to him, he noted the contrast of the black against Gaara's skin, the way the pallor seemed almost lucent in the drear.

He stopped next to Gaara, and stood a handsbreadth behind him, the front of his blue sandal mere inches from the tips of his friend's fingers.

Neji looked beyond Gaara, down into the pond. Their reflections gazed back at him; his own face, edgy, somber, looming over Gaara; Gaara's face, unchanged from before, still reflecting the dichotomy so familiar to Neji, attention and withdrawal sketched across his eyes.

The Leaf ninja watched Gaara's gaze wander upwards, fix upon the lavender of his own in the pool; and he watched his own face flush slowly. Embarrassed, Neji slipped his hands into his pockets, and looked away from the water, down towards the small pale hand pressed near his.

"Gaara?"

He could have been a leaf, brushing against its fellow, for all the strength that dry whisper that escaped his throat had held. Neji found that he could not look at Gaara, could not turn his face to see Gaara's reaction.

"I'm sorry," he said.

Somewhere in the distance, a bird called out to its mate, its torrent of cheerful babble unfurling into the solemnity of the early day, a contrast to the quiet, an invasion.

Neji rubbed his cheek, the flat of his hand moist, unsteady. When Gaara made no move to reply, he drew his hand away, and swiped sharply at the skein of hair that tumbled across his cheek. Still not looking at Gaara, he drew a deep breath, and began to talk.

"Gaara -- I was inconsiderate and – and rather cataclysmically rude to you, and . . . I apologize. I didn't mean to say what I said. I was angry . . ."

His voice caught, and he swallowed again. "I was angry, and . . ."

"It's okay."

Neji blinked at the ground, and, for a moment, there was only the chorus of leaves, rustling high above them. Wind swept lightly across the bridge, strewing locks of black and red through the air.

Still addressing Neji's reflection, Gaara continued, "It's okay. I understand."

"I want to explain anyway." Neji replied. "I owe you that."

"It's fine, Neji."

"It is _not_ fine," Neji said.

His voice rang in the silence, too loud and too sharp. Neji winced; he hadn't meant to say it quite like that.

Gaara, however, looked unconcerned.

"Neji . . ." the Sand ninja spared his friend's chagrined reflection a glance, his tone musing, low, "Pride is your sword, your shield, and your sin . . . your reaction was just your nature. It was partly my fault, anyway."

His voice seemed to meld with the bluish morning air; it was so soft. Neji stood still, allowing the rhythm of breath and voice rise to him and settle in his ears, until it ceased to be and Gaara was quiet once more. From the far side of the pond, a turtle slid off its rock and slipped head-first into the water, making it ripple and move.

Neji sighed, and burrowed his hands deeper into his pockets. "Gaara . .. ."

He could not find the words to express what he wanted to convey: that he was ashamed, that he had been tired, that he should not have said what he said, that he was so very sorry. That events can crowd up too closely, that what you meant and what you said were sometimes widely disparate things. That regret is a hole within you, an emptiness made all the worse by a long, long night.

"It hurts," Gaara spoke up simply, "to admit that. It hurts my pride. Apologizing must have hurt your own. But that is human, Neji, is it not? To have pride . . ."

Neji heard the matter-of-fact tone, and the sorrow below it; living water beneath ice. The Leaf nin sat down when Gaara did not continue, scooting up so that he could hang his own legs off of the bridge and feel the edge press against the back of his bent knees. The morning cold crept through the cloth of his pants like something half-asleep and half-remembered, but vengeful all the same.

"I _am_ sorry," he said aloud, almost sternly. Beneath the pond's surface, strings of green waved and turned in the murk. "I spent all night thinking about how sorry I was."

"I'm not upset," Gaara replied.

Neji looked down, at his own clenched hand. "I sound angry, don't I?"

"No," Gaara said, "you sound hurt."

Neji shrugged uncomfortably. "I think I owe you an explanation."

"I told you, it's okay."

"It most certainly is not." Neji tugged hard on his hair, frowning at the sky. Next to him, Gaara shifted position slightly, and allowed his hand to slip from the thin metal bar.

Neji's eyes, attracted by the movement, followed Gaara's hand as he raised it again, and, in a gesture that was almost dancelike, slowly ran his finger down the edge of the railing, his own eyes intent on the metal and the wood.

"I understand," he said simply. "You do not have to feel as if you need to justify yourself to me."

A little hurt by the cold tone, Neji tore his eyes away. "Gaara, I owe you an explanation for my abominable behavior last night. Shut up and let me apologize correctly."

Gaara withdrew his finger, studied it intently, then curled it into a fist and uncurled it once more. Neji recognized the expression on his face, the faint twist to his mouth, as both amusement and annoyance. For a moment, he wasn't sure if the Sand nin would answer or not; however, Gaara abruptly dropped his hand into his lap, and shrugged. "Sure. Fine, then."

"Okay."

Neji leaned forward, his eyes finding the trees, the way they seemed to raise their boughs towards the sky.

"Look, I know you've heard this before, so I'll make it quick. I . . ." he searched his mind briefly, then said, "I was born into the Branch House, to a group of people who suffer beneath the threat of pain if they dare to disobey another group of more important, more privileged people."

He paused. The words had come from him in a rush, a tumble of sounds spoken far too quickly. He breathed for a moment, and found his thread again. "Do you know what that is like, to _have_ to obey, to know that you will suffer if you do not? I watched my father cry in pain, Gaara. I watched my uncle make my father cry in pain . . ."

He kept his gaze on his clenched hand, and watched it waver and blur. Neji bit back the tears, the old pain of the old injustice, and closed his eyes.

He opened them when another hand touched his own, light as a leaf blown from its branch.

Neji kept still as Gaara's hand moved over his own, and settled down upon it, pale spread fingers sliding over darker, tightened ones, and holding on. Neji slowly looked to his right, and Gaara was looking back at him, impassive yet inviting; his blue eyes not so cold.

"I hated it," Neji continued hoarsely, speaking to those blue eyes, "I hated the injustice. I understood the reasons, the mechanical reasons, for such a Branch – to protect the Main, to nurture and shield it. But it doesn't work that way. _It doesn't work. _They . . . disdained us."

Neji looked away, the old bitterness spilling across his face. "They disgraced us."

Gaara, still holding his hand, moved his eyes a little from Neji's, looked back to the railing and the dim pond below. The part of Neji that was so upset, so _humiliated_, at losing control in front of anyone, anyone at all, was deeply grateful for the gesture, for the understanding and the respect Gaara gave him by letting him weep without feeling eyes upon his most vulnerable and secret pain. This is what a near-sleepless night gets me, Neji thought: an abrupt, minor breakdown. It might have felt good if he wasn't so angry with himself.

"All this time," he continued aloud, "all this time, and I . . . _still_ . . ."

"You learn to value yourself to compensate for the lack of value others show you." The redhead mused thoughtfully, overriding Neji, making no comment on the tears.

"I know," Neji roughly wiped his cheeks with his free hand, frowning determinedly at his reflection, "I know you know. I'm not trying to throw a pity-party; I understand more now. I understand that my father chose his death, and was happy . . ."

Gaara turned back to him; Neji watched the image in the water shrug, a little. "But it still hurts."

Neji nodded, and dried his hand on the cloth of his pants.

"Pride . . ." He flicked his hair from his face once more, searching for his thoughts. "Pride . . . is like armor. Your own belief of your own importance -- your own mind reaffirming that you _are_ important." Neji licked his dry lips, and shrugged. "It's armor against the eyes that tell you, no, you're not."

He looked once again to the water, and saw his face waver below him, gazing back at him. The dark hair had crept back over his cheek, over the corner of his eye.

"Do you know, Gaara, the play wings that they sell at costume stores? I guess pride is like giving wings like those to a caged bird." Neji lifted his hand in a small gesture towards his forehead; he had forgotten the headband, and the manji imprinted upon his skin was there for all to see. "The bird looks at the wings and thinks, I can fly, I can fly even though others lock me in and clip my wings, I can fly in my own mind, they can lock me up and take away my real ability to fly but they cannot take these pretend wings away from me. And, after a while, you begin to believe in the pretend wings; you use them to prove that you _can_ fly; when others say, no you cannot, you are a caged bird, you can wave the pretend wings in their faces."

They stayed silent for a moment, Neji pondering his own words in the hush.

"Did you tell your uncle how you felt?"

Neji nearly jumped at the sudden sound of Gaara's voice. "Hiashi-sama? Are you kidding me? I've spoken to no one but Uzumaki Naruto - and now you."

Gaara frowned at the wood. "You told Uzumaki of the events. You made no mention of your feelings."

Neji exhaled slowly, looking back to Gaara. The redhead's voice may have been toneless, nearly uninflected, a simple statement of facts; but those blue eyes said everything that time and pain had robbed Gaara's voice of. Neji felt a pang in his heart, sharp and immediate; here he was, reliving his own unhappiness to a person who had been damaged far more than Neji could imagine. His eyes lingered, not for the first time, on the stains about Gaara's eyes, the black that a demon had inked into the skin. Neji felt his throat constrict; some things just weren't fair.

"I'm sorry," he said aloud, and Gaara lifted his head just a little bit, an indication of surprise and focus. "I . . . you have enough emotional issues without me tacking on my own."

Gaara narrowed his eyes at Neji, his gaze unblinking. "I can be the judge of that."

"Gaara–"

"You didn't tell Uzumaki how you felt." Gaara spoke over him.

"I – I didn't understand myself." Neji fought the urge to squirm beneath Gaara's slight frown. "And it's nothing I have any business whining to you about."

"Do you now?"

"What?"

"Do you understand your feelings now?" Gaara repeated patiently, leaning forward slightly to get a better look at him.

"I shouldn't be–"

Uncompromising blue eyes bored into Neji's own. "_Talk._"

Unnerved, Neji almost drew back. "I'm telling you about them, aren't I?"

"True." Gaara settled back a little, waiting.

Neji was silent for a long moment, playing absently with the collection of dirt and pebbles strewn across the bridge. Gaara squeezed his hand, with a touch that was not quite gentle, and Neji reluctantly began again. "I regret hurting Hinata, though. I . . . that was unforgivable of me. That was low." He etched an unsteady circle into the grit, thumbnail guided by his finger. "Of all my family, she is perhaps the only one who might have understood me; my uncle practically disowned her in favor of Lady Hanabi, because Hanabi was more powerful . . . and I didn't care for her pain. I just . . . didn't' care. I was her cousin, she called me her big brother; and I was too consumed with my own pain to care for hers. I _valued_ my pain more than hers. Pride." Neji gave Gaara a sour smile, and shook his head. "But I owe you a better excuse than a sob story."

Gaara shrugged. "You are not the only one who has ever been cruel to a family member."

Neji's dour smile softened at the edges. "Kankuro is suspicious of me, you realize."

"Well," Gaara nudged a pebble to the edge of the bridge, "that is better than the fact that Hanabi recognizes my voice on your receiver and automatically gets you when she hears it."

"She raids my room, I swear."

The hard set of Gaara's mouth softened, and he watched the pebble fall into the water. Neji let his eyes move beyond the pond, to the trees towering up around it.

Summer had come to Konoha, and with the turn of the seasons had come the energy of sultry days; a sun that brimmed with light, a forest alive with animals that hopped and skittered to and fro, the air filled with birds, with laughter. Summer was vigorous, immediate, green thriving everywhere, freedom spurring the young of Konoha to mischief and adventure. Neji longed for autumn already; his was a serious state of being, and the beautiful tragedy of autumn suited his sensibilities.

Autumn . . .

His eyes move left, sought Gaara's face, the black against the white against the blue, the curves of the cheeks and mouth. A landscape of supple dips and rises, and smooth expanses beneath cropped, damp hair. Neji fond himself almost smiling again, an expression that did not come easily to the young man, an expression that felt . . . good.

For what was he complaining about? He had his autumn right here; the colors of dying leaves and wet blackened moss and brilliant October skies.

I could kiss him, Neji thought suddenly. I could kiss him, I could touch his face, he is so plain and somber, both cold and not, and . . . beautiful. I could . . .

But what if he does not kiss me back? What if he dislikes me for me? What would he think of me? How would I look?

He looked down, to Gaara's small hand curled over his, and the bitter smile touched his mouth again. Perhaps, were I not so proud, were I not so nervous, I would . . . I would . . .

_Plink_.

Startled, Neji looked up, and found himself looking at the faint outline of his own face, echoed in Gaara's eyes. How close they were, suddenly; and he was instantly all too aware of the weight, of the warmth, of Gaara's hand, still atop his own. He was _looking_ at Gaara; all he could see was Gaara; and all he could feel was that small hand pressed to his. Too heavy; too warm.

"You're staring at me, Neji." Gaara whispered, and he was looking back.

Neji made no sound as the sand ninja raised his hand, the movement deliberate, delicate, and reached out for him. There was the dim sense of heat, of blurred presence, and then the very tips of Gaara's fingers were brushing Neji's cheek; and the touch, tender, light, was following the curve below his eye, trailing down his face, the littlest finger barely missing the corner of his mouth. Gaara blinked up at Neji, nearly shy, nearly owlish, in the morning, and Neji found that he could not look away, that he never wanted to.

About them both, the whisper of the raindrops became a choir, and the disturbance on the water grew to a dance of falls and circles beyond the bridge.


End file.
